


Transition

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [28]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Smutuary, and a little bit of PFF, and that Crypt of Tears promotional photo, though the second was just a hell of a coincidence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: They were alone. Far from home. He’d come for the case but also, she knew, for her. And now the case was resolved and there was only this left unanswered, unchanged.A first time fic for the Smutuary promptTransition





	Transition

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, last week I started writing a Smutuary fic for the prompt Transition, and in my head there was this meta level in setting it after Crypt of Tears and the show's transition to a different medium. Because I can never just be simple. And so I started, wrote a description of Jack's outfit, heavily influenced by Brendan Fraser in _The Mummy_ , and didn't get a chance to finish it. So I picked it back up yesterday. And then, today... well, [THAT PHOTO](https://missfishermoviefans.tumblr.com/post/182824726708/jen-on-twitter) was shared. It made finishing this fic very hard, because, well... you've seen the photo, right? Go look again, in case it wasn't clear why it was distracting. I'll wait. So now I just look like a weirdo who ficced from a promotional picture. 😂😂😂 (For clarity, I _love_ when people do it, it's just one of those things I personally feel weird about.) 
> 
> I was also going to avoid posting this because I didn't want to get the setting wrong, but then I wrote it and read the whole thing and realised there's no description to get wrong, really. I'm telling myself it's a stylistic choice, or I'll spend six months researching Bedouin tents circa 1930.

They were alone. Far from home. He’d come for the case but also, she knew, for her. And now the case was resolved and there was only  _ this _ left unanswered, unchanged. 

It wasn’t that she was nervous, really, because she’d not have embarked on this madness if there was uncertainty. She knew herself too well, cared for him too much, to be anything less than certain. Some bells could not be unrung, and they were in the ringing now.

He was more casually dressed than she’d ever seen him in Melbourne, a concession to the heat--linen trousers and shirt secured by leather braces, his chest and forearms bared and his hair loose. His knee was tucked up as he sat beside her, his body twisted to face her, posture relaxed as they lounged amongst the cushions scattered on the ground. His expression was the same though, the small smile at the corner of his lips, the fondness in his eyes, the delightful heat palpable in the swallowing of his Adam’s apple. 

A hand was extended without preamble, most of his attention still focused on their discussion; she took it, her fingers gliding against his palm absently, her fingertips gently bumping against the band of his watch. Even in the lamplight she could see the way his eyes darkened, the pulse beneath his skin quickening, the sweep of his eyelashes against his skin as he blinked slowly. He reminded her of a cat in that moment, languid and graceful, and she longed for him in a way she’d rarely longed before; she craved the calloused softness of his hands, yes, and the weighty heat of him between her thighs, but she also wanted  _ this, _ all the intimacy that could be found with fingers on a wrist, in the warmth of his voice as they talked. 

Reaching up with her free hand, she stroked the apple of his cheek, leant in to taste his lips. He was not the best kisser she’d ever had--that distinction likely went to Charlie Ricard when she was 15, though perhaps that was inexperience, or possibly that lovely man the last time she was in Milan--but his mouth parted willingly to hers, the surety of his kiss intoxicating. And when his hand cupped her head, fingers brushing against her neck softly as he did, and pulled her closer, she changed her mind; this was a heady flight into sensation, the sort of kiss you could get lost in if it wasn’t guiding you home, and it was unparalleled. 

She moved closer, a gentle push of her hand against his shoulder encouraging him onto his back; his arm slipped around her waist to pull her even closer, the slow press of their bodies creating an ache in her gut. She slid her leg over his thigh, rolled her hips as she came to straddle him, lips still on his. Slipped one hand between them to unfasten his trousers, fingers dipping into the shorts beneath to draw his half-hard cock out. Stroked it once, twice, capturing his groans with her mouth as it grew firmer.

“There’s no coming back from this,” she murmured. “Are you certain?”

She saw the teasing answers cross his face, but he nodded solemnly.

“More than anything.”

She didn’t wait for another moment; her mouth was hungry, her hands greedy as she discarded her knickers, guided him inside. Gripped his braces as she rode him, slow and deep and close, kissing him until she began to pant, the promised sweet pleasure of release stealing her breath; felt the steady curve of his fingers stroking against her back as he met her movement for movement. There was no teasing in this joining, no challenge. Another time, yes. She looked forward to it. But on this night this was all she wanted, the closeness of his body in hers, the honesty of his half-lidded eyes as his head tilted back, the tendons of his neck straining as he tried to hold on to this moment.

She sped up, her orgasm rolling over her like a riptide, deceptively calm on the surface, but devastatingly strong underneath; she surrendered to the current. And when she came out the other side it was to his lips pressed to her hair, the sweat of exertion cooling their skin, and a sense of contentment flowing like honey through her body.  

“Well, Miss Fisher...” he began, and she huffed in amusement, burying her face against his shoulder, the linen and leather pressing against her forehead, grounding her in the aftermath.

“Do you intend to call me Miss Fisher forever?” she teased, his shirt sticking to her lips as she spoke.

The question struck her at the same moment it struck him, a split second of stillness, the implications clear. And then she waited for his reply--she did not want to recall the words, did not know what forever could mean, but she was certain this was it. There were people too deep beneath your skin to ever truly leave, no matter how far apart you were. She had had only a handful in her life, more accustomed to loving easily and transiently. Janey. Mac. And now, it seemed, Jack Robinson. 

His fingers skittered along her spine, featherlight and tender.

“I thought I might,” he said, his voice tinged with dry affection. “Unless you have any objections?”

“None at all,” she replied, breathing in the scent of him, unobscured by the layers that clung to him at home. “I think it sounds rather marvelous.”


End file.
